


you're the fire and the flood

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: the weight of us (stand alone s4 fic) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Series Spoilers, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9331937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: All around him, a fiery grave. Rubble flies and he can feel the heat upon his skin as if he were burning from the inside out. Briefly, arms and legs windmilling as hard asphalt came into view, he thought It's almost like a Bond movie.See, John? I did pay attention.





	

_I was only walking through your neighborhood_  
_saw your light on, honey; in the cold I stood_  
_anywhere I go there you are_  
_anywhere I go there you are_

([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKmWd8DPrEc))

 

All around him, a fiery grave. Rubble flies and he can feel the heat upon his skin as if he were burning from the inside out. Briefly, arms and legs windmilling as hard asphalt came into view, he thought  _It's almost like a Bond movie. See, John? I did pay attention._

He hits the ground with a thud, choking and sputtering. Before he can fully catch his breath he's stumbling to his feet, eyes darting through billows of acrid smoke for a familiar black jacket.

"JOHN!" He calls, voice catching in the wind. It's as if he'd swallowed gravel and allowed it to take up residence in his throat. 

Ten steps to his left lies a body - the most important set of muscle and bone that he has ever had the pleasure of touching up close. John coughs, deep and hoarse, and it's a full on symphony. It's the greats taking to their violins and cellos. 

_"John."_

He drops to his knees and presses an ear to a chest that houses a heartbeat. A singular composition that echos heat and rain, waterfalls and vows. It beats steadily and he nearly sobs with relief. 

"John, wake up." 

 

Mycroft dusts off his vest and beats his umbrella against the ground. Debris forms a small pile under it but it'll never be clean enough. The ashes of 221B fall like snowflakes, covering every person in their wake. 

"MYCROFT," Sherlock calls. His voice sounding high pitched and distorted. Panicked. His mouth is drawn down and pinched, eyes wet and belstaff tarnished. The coat billows around him, partly blanketing John's chest as Sherlock continues to press an ear against his chest. 

Mycroft pauses next to the scene. It should be proof enough that Sherlock Holmes is far too emotional when it comes to John Watson. How easily he is compromised; a weak spot in the family quilt. He has witnessed such a scene in another life with a lifeless smaller body and a sobbing Sherlock in his arms.

The untimely death of his childhood best friend Victor Trevor had nearly rid him of feelings altogether; encouraging him to divorce them was the next step and he'd taken to it like a babe to the breast. This way, Mycroft figured, he'd never experience such pain. Not on his watch.

But here he is, draped over the man he loves, scared to death. In many ways he is still but a child. It's Mycroft's honor to keep the boy who once dreamed of being a pirate alive and relatively healthy. 

"He had the wind knocked out of him but he will recover, Sherlock." 

 

A guttural growl tears its way out of Sherlock's chest. He sits up, keeping one hand pressed to John's heart. " _You_ did this." He has a finger accusingly jabbed in Mycroft's direction when they both start at the sound of a dry cough. One followed by another. 

"T...Tea," John rasps. 

Sherlock removes his gloves and places a palm to John's cheek. It's bruised and scraped with blood drying along his temple and he has had better days that's for sure. They both have. 

Tea. Naturally he'd come to wanting it for his parched throat. 

"Are you okay? John?"

John attempts to laugh, it comes out rusty. He plucks at his ruined shirt and pulls a face. " 'spose so but it's your turn to do the dry cleaning." 

For the first time since the godforsaken drone had invited itself into their home, Sherlock smiles. The corners of his mouth turn up and tiny wrinkles form around his eyes. When he speaks it's somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"I did it last time," Sherlock says.

John shakes his head and Sherlock can actually feel the smile on his face against his palm. 

 

Mycroft scoffs and trots off to check in on Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't care for the old bat but a broken hip due to the aftershock is entirely possible. The shoppe and her section of the flats are covered in soot but they're still standing. Patrons filter out in panicked droves, many frantically calling their loved ones. Shame, that. He could've gone for a tart or two. Three if they were raspberry. 

 

"Nope," John protests. 

Sherlock continues to cradle his cheek and John has yet to remove his hand. My God how long has his sentimental heart overridden his common sense? He's revealing far more than he'd intended to and even Lestrade could read him right now if he were here. Embarrassed, he begins to turn away. 

"Don't." 

John latches onto his wrist. His grip is weak and Sherlock could escape but, for the first time in his life, he doesn't want to. 

An ambulance siren blares, followed by blue lights and a sea of firefighters that come from a point John cannot focus on. Good, Sherlock thinks. They can check John over and ensure that no internal bleeding has taken place. They can patch together what Mycroft's plan has damaged. 

"You need medical assistance," Sherlock protests. 

"...Sherlock. Hear me out, mm?" He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Sherlock nods. There's no one on God's green Earth that can force a stubborn John Watson to do what he should, if he doesn't want to. 

"Had a dream last night," John begins. He pauses and takes a deep breath, slowly exhales. He is both gathering his courage and speaking from an aching body. How old is too old to be playing with explosives and running amuck like a mad man, he wonders. 

"Take your time," Sherlock urges. 

Firefighters file into the ruined building, boots crunching on what was once the front door to 221B. 

"I...we...had Rosie. And a home, a fireplace, a crib and rattle."

Sherlock's face falls. 

"Mary," he says, broken. 

John has narrowly escaped death once more and has came out the other side with his deceased wife on his mind. Rosamund deserves stability and safety, something he cannot promise. It hurts worse than he thought it would. It's chalkdust in his lungs, an empty bassinet, an abandoned chair. 

"No..." John's cheeks are smudged with soot, his hair is sticking up in the wrong direction and he's  _smiling._

It's fine...it's good. Sherlock will play the fool for him, wouldn't be the first time. He  _is_  the reason for a stone engraved with the name  _Mary Watson,_ unfortunately. John had forgiven him but what use are words against grief? Is it not heavier?

"It's okay, John."

_You're allowed to break._

_Am_ I  _allowed to break?_

"Just the three of us," John replies. 

 

Mary's ghost continues to haunt his every waking move, why wouldn't she? The three of them: John, the spirit of a woman who is no more and the epitome of life and new beginnings: Rosie. 

Sherlock nods, accepting his fate. Uncle Sherlock, babysitting duty when John is away on a date, when he doesn't come home at night. 

"Of course."

John rotates the wrist he has a grip on until Sherlock's hand is open. Like the rest of our lives, he thought. An open, open, open field. 

Confused, Sherlock blinks.

Mrs. Hudson clucks in the background about her dishes, tarts burning in the oven, her boys -  _Where are my boys?_

"Me...Rosie..." John clears his throat and gently presses his lips to Sherlock's palm. "And... _you._ "

 

"I can assure you that they're both healthy, Mrs. Hudson. Now if you'll  _please_ stand still, there is a technician who needs to check you out."

Mrs. Hudson glares, lips pinched. She begins to pick at the hand holding onto her upper arm and fails. "Unhand me, Mycroft Holmes. I will not have you manhandling me and at my age..." 

Family is overrated, he thought, signaling the tech over. 

Meanwhile, his brother was too absorbed in his partner to even check in with either of them. _Love_ , he huffs. It's for fools. 

 

" _Your_ flat...?" 

Why would John want to leave his spacious flat? It's sunny, the neighborhood is excellent and the kitchen isn't littered with hazardous chemicals. There are no sword marks on his table, no gunshots in the wall. What could 221B possibly have to offer? 

At the moment, nothing but cinders. 

"Just for now," John answers. 

He coughs, hoarse. Sherlock nods, smiles politely. 

"Yes."

John smiles, wide and beautiful. "I would say go pack your bags but..." 

He laughs and there's something here Sherlock is missing. 

"I don't..." 

John drops a kiss on pale knuckles, dirty though they are.

" _You're_ moving in with _us_ ," John clarifies. 

If hell were a place on Earth, it would be that retched flat with its reminders of Mary in every corner. His fool heart lurches hopefully at  _us._

 

"Greg has a room," he lies. 

John arches an eyebrow. "Okay..."

Floundering, Sherlock pulls his hand back. "After you're well and bandaged up, I'll send him a text." 

"No you won't." 

First of all, how dare he assume so rudely that-

"I have a room with a bed, two pillows. Will have to buy a new bedset as I'm sure you'd rather not sleep with Mary's. Left side is mine."

Rewind.

_Left side is mine._

The right is open; an invitation.

"Share a bed?," he questions. 

John nods. "Soon as we get this mess with Mycroft settled."

John. 

Rosie.

He'd  _dreamed_ of Sherlock. 

Of the three of them together; a family. 

"Okay?" John asks. 

Sirens wail, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft snip at one another over insurance matters as a paramedic bandages a minor laceration on her forehead, Lestrade is checking in with his men, paramedics are making their way toward the couple and the sun is out. 

"Okay," Sherlock whispers. He takes John's hand and presses his lips against the knuckles, his palm, the inside of his wrist. 

 

It's a beautiful day on Baker St. 


End file.
